


talk more

by SamIAm



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fake Marriage, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Past Relationship(s), Platonic Cuddling, Pre-Slash, Theodosia/Burr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-06 00:30:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5395871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamIAm/pseuds/SamIAm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It turns out that some has-been has been analyzing Aaron’s and Hamilton’s appearances together since they announced the marriage. He correctly concluded that the whole thing is fake, captioned a bunch of cherry-picked stills and pictures with claims that the (scare-quotes) couple is “tellingly distant,” and ended his blog post by asking “Alex” whether he’s considered if his (scare-quotes) husband is secretly straight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	talk more

**Author's Note:**

  * For [drunkonwriting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drunkonwriting/gifts).
  * Inspired by [smile more](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5080711) by [drunkonwriting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drunkonwriting/pseuds/drunkonwriting). 



> Thanks forever to Drunkonwriting for giving me permission to play in the accidentally-married-in-Vegas universe. Anything that gets Jossed is my fault.
> 
> If you haven't read 'smile more' before you should probably do that before reading this for maximum story comprehension.

When Sherrie, Aaron’s Chief of Staff, calls him late one Saturday night to ask whether he was the one to make a Twitter account for his government email address, he instantly realizes that Hamilton must be the culprit. Aaron tells Sherrie that he’ll take care of it, thanks her for bringing it to his attention, makes his goodbyes, and storms into the living room to confront Hamilton.

It turns out that some has-been has been analyzing Aaron’s and Hamilton’s appearances together since they announced the marriage. He correctly concluded that the whole thing is fake, captioned a bunch of cherry-picked stills and pictures with claims that the (scare-quotes) couple is “tellingly distant,” and ended his blog post by asking “Alex” whether he’s considered if his (scare-quotes) husband is secretly straight.

Or something. Hamilton speeds through the explanation so he can get back to vowing revenge for the reader poll about which of them was just using the other for their own agenda (Aaron had won by nearly 80%).

But it’s hard to take Hamilton seriously-he’s getting so mad over so little. Aaron has never bothered to give such small rumors any attention at all.

Or at least, Aaron doesn’t take him seriously until his plans for revenge get specific. He finally has to interrupt: “No! Alexander, you are _not_ going to verify a Twitter account for me just so you can make it tweet “lol” at some asshole on the internet! How did you even come up with that?”

Aaron listens, consternation turning to condemnation, as Hamilton reveals that the only reason his poor publicist has let him keep access to his Twitter account all these years is out of fear of what he’ll write otherwise.

Apparently while his ex-publicist David Plouffe had run Washington’s account just fine during his first presidential campaign, Hamilton had been more than he’d bargained for: They’d fought over every word Hamilton published until Plouffe had completely cut him off.

Hamilton had created almost a dozen new accounts. Since he'd had plausible deniability, he'd abandoned any pretense of restraint. He’d made no attempt to hide that it was him. His follower counts had skyrocketed, and he’d started each tweet with a mention of the official account so its mentions were an endless hell of strongly bipartisan reactions.

Plouffe had given him back the password and resigned.

Hamilton seems proud of his victory but Aaron can't imagine ever pulling anything like that, let alone of being anything but ashamed that his behavior would drive away someone working so hard for him.

They’re just too different. How in God’s name are they going to make it through five years?

Aaron establishes, and gets Hamilton’s assent, that it is and always will be unacceptable for him to sabotage Aaron’s public image. That Hamilton is never to speak for Aaron without him cosigning the entire statement. And that Aaron will not be giving _this_ asshole the satisfaction of a response.

Hamilton argues against the last, claiming rumors grow if they’re not denied. Aaron is adamant that acknowledging rumors just circulates them farther, gives them credibility. He insists that they'll just have to spend more time together until they’re comfortable enough with each other that this rumor dies out on its own.

Hamilton agrees to that but remains just as determined to face the accusation head on. Eventually they compromise that Hamilton can make a short, personal response _if_ he gets his publicist’s permission.

* * *

_**@ADOTHAM** _

_Aaron and my publicist said I was allowed to make five tweets about #straightgate. Gloves are OFF!_

_**@ADOTHAM** _

_Apparently some clown doesn’t understand the difference between celebrity and politics. Hint: we work in DC. #BURRSBI **@PerezHilton**_

_**@ADOTHAM** _

_Wiki says his MO is to try to drag people OUT of the closet? FYI the reverse is homophobic as hell too! #BURRSBI **@PerezHilton**_

_**@ADOTHAM** _

_Just wondering if **@PerezHilton** is more pressed that he didn’t get to out Aaron himself or that he’s still single? #BURRSBI _

_**@ADOTHAM** _

_I GET he’s scared of his irrelevance but why’s he tryna start it with me? #BURRSBI RT **@sweaterjump** omg aham’s gonna DESTROY **@PerezHilton**_

_**@ADOTHAM** _

_**@PerezHilton** Go play with your babies. It might teach you enough about family that you’ll see there’s NOTHING wrong with mine. #BURRSBI_

* * *

The next morning as Aaron eats and cleans up from breakfast, responsibility nags at him. Feeling that he ought to set a good example after he was the one to say they need to spend more time in each other’s company, he decides to go into the office while Hamilton’s in it.

Aaron needs to reread one of his files about a bill he hasn’t paid attention to in months. Having seen no reason not to at the time, he’d voted for it when Cornyn told him to. But it’d only been a 52-48 win, with big red states voting against party lines. He’d been sure it wouldn’t pass through the House, but it had by a landslide; apparently someone had convinced the other Republicans to care about it.

Hamilton is, of course, writing when Aaron joins him, desk a mess of open books.

“That better not be more about Perez Hilton,” Aaron warns as a greeting. They're his first words of the day. Hamilton’s negation is quick and short, not contrived enough to be one of his lies.

Pleased that he doesn’t have to reopen that fight, Aaron sits on the couch and begins the slow process of finding whatever rider his party wants to get through.

Just when Hamilton’s scratching of pen on page fades from irritant to background noise, he sets it down with a huff. Aaron looks up-Hamilton’s fabled moments of writer’s block are said to be hilariously clichéd. He’s hoping to witness him rip out the page in frustration but instead finds Hamilton frowning at him.

He frowns back. Sure, they’ve had an unspoken agreement to stay clear of the office when the other was working, but he’d said he understood last night. And Aaron's allowed to be here-this is technically _his_ office. “Hey, you agreed to spend more time together,” he says.

“I did, but this isn’t going to help at all. The issue is that we’re not intimate enough in public. We need to force close contact, not the ability to sit half a room away from each other. Pull up a chair over here so we can work together.”

“That’s never going to work. You don’t sit still.” _I can barely concentrate with you being so restless all the way over_ there, Aaron adds to himself.

“I sit still! I do my work!”

“You do not.”

“I work more than you do!”

“I’m not saying you don’t do your work! Obviously you do your work. You do way more than just _your_ work. But you don’t sit still while you do it. You write like you’re attacking the paper and you jerk around and you’re constantly fidgeting.”

Hamilton glowers at Aaron.  And picks up his notepad. And comes and sits right next to Aaron on Aaron’s couch. And actually scooches even closer until the sides of their legs are squeezed together from knee to hip.

“Jesus.”

“No reading over my shoulder,” Hamilton says. He goes back to whatever he’d been scribbling away at.

Even though he’s living through it, Aaron can’t quite believe that this is happening. “You’ve left all those reference books on your desk.” _Go back._

“If I need to reference anything I can check my phone, like everyone living in the 21st century except you, or I can do it after husband bonding time.”

He’d said it like the concept were capitalized menacingly in his mind. “Fine, but I’m kicking you off my couch when you start squirming.” Hamilton grins. “What?”

“Usually when a man is in trouble with his spouse, he gets kicked _to_ the couch.”

“Just write, Alexander.”

He does and actually stays more or less still, leaning forward over his paper as though he really thought Aaron were going to spy on whatever he’s doing.

The voice that makes all the reminders that Aaron hasn’t told Jefferson anything about Hamilton in a while pipes up to say that if Hamilton is so concerned about it, maybe Aaron should be trying.

Instead he finishes reading his bill. And rereads it. And skims it backwards, hoping something might jump out at him divorced from context. Nothing. “Why the hell did the Representatives in my party push through S.1928?”

Hamilton’s pen pauses. “What’s that?” Aaron flips back to the front page and shows him the summary. He scans it with a frown and says, “Don’t know. Probably some sort of agreement with California that they’ll back the tax change in exchange for—something.”

Aaron leans back and rubs both hands down his face. “I’m sure Cornyn will explain it to us when we get the revisions.”

“Mm.”

Aaron should leave now. There are things he could be doing, and he’s not enjoying the closeness at all. He’s leaning backward and over the arm of the couch, putting as much distance between them as he can without separating their thighs. He’s also been unnaturally still and tried to be small. Usually he would have stretched out, shuffled his legs, something other than being crammed into a corner.

He’d like to leave.

But Hamilton is still waging war on his steno pad. He’s stayed astoundingly still for the entire hour or so that Aaron had poured over the bill, and Aaron feels obliged to last him out after making a fuss earlier.

“Give me your phone. Bring up the login page for my email.”

Hamilton shoots him a pained look but fishes it out of his pocket anyway, lifting his hips to widen the lip. When he sits back down, his legs angle farther away, and as he navigates the labyrinth of options needed to switch email accounts, Aaron takes the opportunity to wedge his back into the cushy armpit of the couch. Now his knee and only his knee is touching Hamilton’s leg.

It’s such a relief to have his personal space back.

But after handing him the phone, Hamilton turns so he’s realigned with Aaron. And actually leans back so he’s cradled against Aaron’s right side. And brings his feet up onto the couch, zig-zagging his whole body so he can keep using his lap as a desk.

Aaron doesn’t shove him away but it takes a quick, merciless fight with his instincts to manage it. “Alexander, what—“

“You’re not going to get any more comfortable sharing space with me by leaning as far away _from_ me as possible.”

“Not a fan of baby steps, are you?”

“Never. If you’re compromising on what you want before you even get to the table you’ll never end up with something you can live with.”

 _Well, that’s horrifying. But doesn’t it explain_ everything?

Aaron sighs and resigns himself to being squashed, fishes his right arm out from being stuck behind Hamilton’s back to put it up over the pillows, and sets to trying to check his email left-handed.

Hamilton seems completely at ease, but Aaron soon finds that he, himself, cannot relax. He can’t even focus on his email. There’s a distinct area across his chest of ‘doing fine, thanks’ that ends precisely where contact with Hamilton begins.

Aaron can feel the way he proceeds across the page, his weight shifting slightly to the right and then not-so-slightly left at the jump to the start of the next line. He knows when Hamilton gets fired up about whatever point he’s making because his breathing gets faster. His skinny torso expands farther; he’s pulling more air in. And Aaron’s every inhalation raises his chest more fully into Hamilton’s back. He can’t seem to take in a full breath in against it.

Hamilton uses the pause in writing while he flips his page over to give Aaron the most patronizing look Aaron’s ever seen him make at anyone other than Jefferson. “I can tell you’re making this weird. Quit making it weird.”

“You’re the one who made it weird! I was minding my own business and you came over to get all touchy-feely!”

“I didn’t make a big deal out of it!”

“You don’t have to _make_ it a big deal, it already is on its own!”

“We’re just working on a couch together! This isn’t holding hands or something! Friends do this all the time!”

“No one does this with their friends, Alexander.”

“You don’t, maybe!”

“People don’t do this, except _maybe_ if there’s a romantic connection.”

Hamilton jerks away from him and scrambles to the other half of the couch. But Aaron must be a fool for thinking he’s finished arguing: “I’ve done it with Mulligan a million times, and he’s tragically straight. And Lafayette, and we were never like that.”

Aaron waits a beat but nothing’s forthcoming about Laurens or Angelica. He shakes his head, rolls his eyes, and says, “You and that gang are _too_ close.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“You are! Always hugging on sight and then again whenever one of you leaves, like you’re suffering from some mass-compulsion—“

“Burr?”

The spark of irritation at Hamilton’s retreat to formality ignites to a true blaze fanned by the discomfort that had been building in Aaron since Hamilton decided he wanted to cuddle. “Or maybe not, since Laurens is the only one you’re even on a first-name basis with! What happened to ‘I’ll call you Aaron’?”

Hamilton’s mouth twitches to the left and his eyes flit around as he disengages. He looks down and draws in a loud breath, goes so far as to cap his pen and puts it and his pad on the side table behind him. He blows all the air back out fast and takes another deep breath before meeting Aaron’s eyes again.

“Aaron. When was the last time someone hugged you?” Hamilton says.

Suddenly Aaron realizes how tight his own shoulders are. He’s actually hunching over, they're halfway up to his ears. He pushes them back down to where they should be, straightens his spine, and forces himself to relax.

“How should I know? A while? A few weeks?” Aaron says.

It was probably Jefferson, actually-he regularly performs solid, perfunctory hugs, always devoid of affection and ending quickly with two manly claps on the back, to show everyone who his allies are.

Jefferson had made sure to demonstrate his continued embrace of the Republicans’ new, highest-rising, openly non-straight official the first time he’d been in public with Aaron after the marriage announcement. He’d probably gotten a good angle for the cameras, too. Jefferson would do anything to reach the gay community except actually commit to improving its members’ safety or quality of life.

Aaron had never minded Jefferson's hugs before.

“For me, it was yesterday,” Hamilton says, diverting his pointless bitterness.

 _How in God’s name—?_ “You didn’t _see_ anyone yesterday.” _Except me._

“I went shopping before you woke up. Struck up a conversation with a little abuela at the grocery. We went to the checkout together, and she was walking home so I went with her to carry her bags back to her apartment. And to listen.” He grins at Aaron suddenly. “She said I was too thin and made me promise to go home and eat with my husband.”

It’s startling, guilt-inducing, to be brought into the story that way. It makes Aaron realize that he’s gotten too emotional, too caught up in everything. He tries to reel newborn, overly-fond feelings for Alexander back in.

Alexander keeps explaining about his time with the woman while Aaron takes a long moment to compose himself. It kills him a little to know that _of course_ all those sound-bite, feel-good stories making the rounds about Alexander interacting with the public are genuine. That Alexander’s just friendly, that he just honestly _is_ kind and giving, and little old ladies doing their shopping want to hug him.

By the time Hamilton finishes his recount and returns to looking at Aaron critically, Aaron has straightened his expression. “I don’t usually hug members of the public,” he says.  _Even while campaigning._

“Are you—okay with them?”

Aaron feels his expression turn stony. “No matter what you’ve read about me, it’s absolutely untrue that I dislike the people.”

“No! That’s not—I meant hugs.” Hamilton’s looking uncertain. It’s not really something Aaron's seen before.

“Uh, yeah? Why?”

“Then I don’t understand why you don’t do it more often.”

Aaron looks off into space past Hamilton’s shoulder, thinking it over. “I just never have.”

Hamilton’s mouth gapes open a crack. Aaron thinks it’s because he’s a little horrified so he reconsiders what he’s said. After a few moments, he comes up with a counterexample that sends a pang through his stomach. It’s not something he would usually admit, but he wants to do something about Hamilton’s expression. “Except Theodosia.”

It’s been so long. It’s foolish for saying her name to still hurt.

“Theodos—? Ah…” Hamilton trails off into an awkward silence, which hardly ever happens between them.

Aaron’s used to topics dwindling out with others, has embraced having time to reflect on where, or if, to steer the conversation next. But Hamilton talks and talks, has always powered through any lulls or awkwardness with his unending opinions on anything and everything until his conversational partner was moved to agree or to argue.

“Was she the only one for you?” Hamilton asks finally.

“I don’t really believe in a one and only true love.”

“No, yeah, no, that’s not what I was saying. Has she been the only one you ever loved? Is that why you could hold her?”

Aaron can’t answer. His impulse is to obfuscate, to remind Hamilton of his older sister Sally, to bring up his friends who have always been close as family, all those important people of his childhood whom he still loves very dearly. But he knows that’s not what Hamilton’s asking about. Avoiding his real question would be lying, and if only by omission then no less for it. He doesn’t want to lie to Hamilton, doesn’t want to raise even higher the wall he maintains between him and this close friend he technically married. But he can’t talk about this.

“Is it okay if _we_ do it?” Hamilton looks lost, and Aaron definitely is.

“What?” he asks, hoping to God that Hamilton doesn’t mean have sex, or somehow fall in love.

“Hug. Like, right now. Hug this out.”

“Um?” He waits for an explanation but Hamilton’s upset in a way that seems to stifle him so Aaron considers the request for himself.

It will be uncomfortable, definitely different from how they usually relate to each other, but things already are uncomfortable and different. They’re married.

It’s still sinking in that they’re not just wobbling back and forth on the “rivals” line that had let them be both friends and enemies for so long. They’re trying to carry the huge, bulky weight of being husbands together, and now their tightrope act has an audience. It’s forcing them to change. They’re not good at it yet and they need to be. They _have_ to get better or this fake marriage is going to fall apart and they’re going to topple off the line.

Aaron cannot risk them falling to the “enemies” side. He extends his arms.

Hamilton’s eyebrows raise, his entire expression crumples in what Aaron thinks is an underhanded way-the man could evoke heartfelt sympathy from a stone. He stands and tugs Aaron up to him, turns his face away over Aaron’s shoulder and full on crushes him around the ribcage, doesn’t ease off on the pressure until Aaron awkwardly puts his arms across Hamilton’s back.

They are pressed together from shoulders to hip. Aaron is positive that his feet are in the wrong place, but he can’t imagine where they should be instead. He can’t remember how he did this with Theodosia, but he’s certain that they were better at fitting their bodies together than he and Hamilton are. He's never thought of Hamilton as _too tall_ before.

Aaron's heart seems to be beating very hard and very fast, and he doesn't know whether to hope that it's just that he can feel Hamilton's beating back. It's hard to think about that. He can't seem to breathe.

The hug lasts and lasts. Even if it had been the most wonderful experience in the world, it still would have lasted far too long for Aaron’s liking, and he hasn't enjoyed any of it.

Eventually Hamilton turns his head and whispers into Aaron’s clavicle: “I know you don't like this, I know this is bad for you. But I don’t know if I can _not_ do this. I don’t know how to be affectionate or even _familiar_ with people and _not_ hug them. And do more than that. I like to touch the people I like. And it’s definitely something I do when I’m trying to support someone even if I wouldn’t be that familiar normally, and—”

“Okay.” Aaron sighs the word to try to make it as gentle as he can, but:

“What?” Hamilton asks, defensive. He draws back to look him in the face and tries to step away, but Aaron catches his forearms and doesn’t let him get too far.

Looking at the same situation, their conclusions are usually diametrically opposed. But it’s rare that they don’t understand what the other is saying and why. They’ve been arguing for so long that they know each other’s minds, are easy on firm ground while they do it.

This morning has been awfully different. They’ve been mistaken about the other’s intentions too much, are talking past each other in an unfamiliar language.

Aaron's stomach clenches because he knows what he has to commit to and it's horrible. But he married Hamilton; he can do this for him. He can’t let Hamilton misinterpret his “okay” as a rejection.

He catches Hamilton’s eyes, trying to project sincerity or at least dedication, and says, “I’ll work on it. We’ll work on it. We can hug if you need it. In general, and also 'hug this out,' whatever that means.”

Hamilton searches Aaron’s face then takes his hands and pulls him back to the couch. They arrange and rearrange themselves in the middle until Hamilton’s head rests where Aaron’s neck meets his right shoulder and they both have an arm around each other. Their other hands have ended up in Aaron’s lap still clasped, and his right leg is over both of Hamilton’s.

The handholding makes the whole thing seem even more overtly romantic than the full body hug had been, and Aaron expects that this is going to be at least as bad, but he’s pleasantly shocked when it’s not. He’s managed to find a position that he can sustain, all tangled up with Hamilton and leaning back into him for the first time.

He should have done this earlier, not just frozen when Hamilton came into his space, but somehow he’d been helpless. He hadn’t thought it was allowed. And more, he’d thought it would be weak to try to ask for something better. He’d thought he’d only be able to hold his pride intact if he bore anything Hamilton did.

But it feels easier, much better now that he’s actually agreed to doing this. He doesn’t know how long it will last, but the uncertainty isn’t looming over him like it had before. He’s not impatient for it. He can wait. This time he doesn’t feel that he’s been stuck here, fallen prey to yet another one of Hamilton’s baffling whims.

This is a give and take. Strength or weakness has nothing to do with it.

Hamilton seems to feel it too: They aren’t stiff with each other, aren’t clamping down on the need to shift around. Hamilton’s changes of position don’t bother Aaron and he doesn’t feel intrusive making his own. It’s natural. It’s nice.

When Aaron’s knee itches Hamilton doesn’t stop him from letting go so he can scratch, doesn’t try to reclaim his hand or question that Aaron hasn’t given it back, just moves his own off of Aaron’s thigh. Passive acceptance is the last thing Aaron would have expected from Hamilton, and calm blooms in his chest until he’s breathing deeply and easily.

Hamilton is warm and remains quiet, and as time stretches on, Aaron feels better about their relationship than he has since they weren’t yet drunk at Angelica’s reception. Five years with him seems doable.

“You still awake?” Aaron finally asks. He's never, ever seen Hamilton go so long without writing or speaking.

“Mm. Just thinking.”

“About?

“Drafting the rest of that.” Hamilton points toward the side table where his steno pad waits out of sight. “Other things I need to work on today. Wondering whether Perez Hilton responded. Planning what we should do for lunch. Wondering if I should turn on some music. Wondering about you.”

“Me?”

“And Theodosia.”

Aaron lets his cheek rest on top of Hamilton’s head. After a struggle he can admit, “I don’t know if I can—“

“That’s okay. I wasn’t gonna ask. Although—I assume this was while I was deployed?”

“Your second time.”

“Okay.” Hamilton goes quiet again.

It’s such a relief not to be interrogated like so many people have done before. Something realigns in Aaron. He feels absurdly secure and settled. Safe.

Suddenly he's breaking the silence. It stuns him but even that doesn't stop him. He looks down at his empty hand and words spill out of him like Alexander had split a dam open just by accepting that it needed to stay up.

“She was older than me, 28 at the time, and so beautiful. We met by chance. At a bus stop. She was wearing these long box braids and this long coat. I was captivated. And you know what I was like at Princeton. Always willing to try my luck with the ladies.”

Alexander chuckles a bit at whatever terrible thing he’s remembering about college-aged Aaron.

“Yeah. Well, it worked. I was all dressed up that day for an interview at some law firm. She said I was looking good and we started talking, kept talking when we got on the bus. Instant chemistry, you know? She got off about twenty minutes later and asked if I wanted to come home with her.”

“Yeah?”

“I did.”

Alexander laughs. “And your interview?”

“I didn’t go. I wasn’t interested in the internship anyway and I was _interested_ in her. Man, I’m telling you, _so_ beautiful. She was always doing something new with her makeup and hair, never looked the same one day to the next. Always new, always so smart, always funny. I used to tell her she should be in stand up, with all those stories she had. And…”

“And?” Alexander prompts.

Aaron has to whisper it: “We could be vulnerable with each other. We were safe together, we supported each other. I felt like she was my biggest, best ally. It meant a lot.”

Alexander makes a soft, sad noise. And because he’s just like Aaron, because he also grew up without it, Aaron is able to keep telling him his secret, the worst one that he hasn’t shared with anyone but Sally:

“She had kids. With her white husband. They were little, the oldest was six. And they loved me, I would play with those two little girls for hours. And a baby boy. Toddler, I guess. By the end I was helping potty train him. There I was, 22 years old, still waiting to hear if I’d gotten into law school, and stressing about becoming a daddy.”

Aaron’s voice breaks on the last word and Alexander takes his hand. Aaron squeezes tight for a second. When he eases up, Alexander starts rubbing little circles into the back of his thumb. “I would’ve, y’know? I thought it was perfect, I was becoming a parent at the same age Thea had. I thought she was gonna leave her husband for me. I thought we would have a life, be a real family. But once he got back from his work in Georgia, she didn’t want me around anymore.”

“I’m so, so sorry, Aaron.”

“Yeah.” They fall back into silence, Alexander still petting his hand. Aaron’s so glad Alexander can’t see his face right now.

They sit like that for ages until Alexander’s stomach gurgles. It's high-pitched and strangely adorable. He twitches and Aaron draws back to see him better. “Time for lunch?” Aaron asks.

Alexander looks uneasy, unsure whether he should end this new thing they’ve got going. Aaron doesn’t know how to come back from it either.

“Probably,” Alexander says at last

“Did you decide what you wanted to do?”

He grins, and the confident Hamilton Aaron knows and enjoys returns from wherever he’d disappeared to. It lets Aaron pull himself back together. He’s always been able to meet this man head on.

“I think we should go give all the straight people hanging around Dupont something to gawk at. You can treat me to whatever you feel like paying for. And with any luck at all, _someone_ will tweet Hilton something snarky about it I can passive-aggressively favorite.”

Aaron smiles, untangles himself, and struggles to his feet. “Sounds fine by me.” He offers Hamilton a hand getting up.

Hamilton shrinks back into couch. “But first I really need to just write down everything I planned out before I forget it. And I’ve got some _really_ excellent wording figured out, and—“

“My God,” Aaron says, but he’s still grinning. “All right, fine, you’ve got twenty minutes. I’ll book us a reservation.”

“But—!“

“You’re too thin, remember? Twenty minutes.”

Hamilton dives for his paper and pen while Aaron makes to leave the office. He gets to the door, but then reconsiders leaving this way. “Alexander?”

He looks up, brow furrowed in concentration. Aaron goes back and gives him a quick hug. “Thank you. I mean it.”

Alexander’s too expressive and it hits Aaron too hard. Fleeting changes starting around Alexander’s eyes and brows cascade down to his mouth stripping away defenses until only gratitude at being understood and being allowed to understand is left. Aaron should look away. He can't look away.

“You’re welcome. Any time, okay? I get it. We’re—we’re both kind of a mess,” Alexander says.

“Yeah.” Aaron’s breath is caught, throat full of the same fragile feelings splayed all over Alexander’s face, but he doesn’t think his smile is nearly as beautiful as Alexander’s right now.

A thought occurs to him, turns his smile into what Aaron thinks of as his evil villain smirk. “Nineteen minutes.”

“Mother _fucker_!”

When Aaron leaves the office, it’s to the soundtrack of Hamilton’s cursing, his pen scratching frantically, and Aaron’s own laughter.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks again to Drunkonwriting; thanks also to Tripleness, who told me what to improve, and to a literal saint, who read this first and asked me to "finish the story."


End file.
